Perfect Situation
by shellyknack
Summary: It really wasn't fair--he followed the rules, he got good grades, he did what he was supposed to do. Why did he have to cut and dye his hair? Hiei/Kurama ONE-SHOT. Tried to keep to the characters as best I could.


NOTE: I tried my best to stay true to the characters, and I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. There's a fair bit of swearing, implied romance between two men, but other than that it's pretty clean. Thanks for reading! Title credits goes to Weezer.

* * *

**Perfect Situation**

"I'm sorry, Minamino-san, but there is…just no way around this."

Kurama bleached his face of any and every twitch of emotion, staring straight at Hagimi-sensei's squashed nose and thinned lips, chapped and professional under the hallway's florescent lighting. He stood, composed and still with his hands behind his back, spine a column of respectful plates, forcing his shoulder's back, his body straight. Polite and poised, nothing that could possibly be offensive in any construable way.

Still, he could sense his teacher's unnerved discomfort—a sheen coat of sweat, dilated pupils, the corners of his mouth twitching like words were getting caught behind his lips.

"Due to your impressive marks and impeccably clean record, other than a few attendance issues, the administration has been, um, _delaying_ this for quite some time. But…with the board under review this month, it's imperative that this situation is taken care of," Hagimi flashed him a dry grin. "You understand, of course."

"Of course," he managed in just above a whisper, bowing his head slightly as his arms fell to his sides. The linoleum floors looked welcoming, gleaming under polished brown shoes. He wanted to just…lay down, sprawl out over the tiles, and breathe.

"We've come to understand that red is in fact your natural hair color, abiding with the school's appearance and dress policy. All the same, it stands out a fair bit too much for the board's liking. A deep brown or black would be suitable. And the length," Hagimi's sunken eyes, deep inside of his skull, quickly darted up and down again, trailing along the vibrant locks, "Is nowhere _near_ regulation length."

"Yes, sir. I understand," he really didn't. He did his work, got top marks, wore his uniform appropriately, even on free-dress days, was respectful to all of his teachers and peers without complaint. He'd never even gotten into a fight on school grounds.

"Very well," Hagimi turned slightly, ready to walk away, back to his office. "The board expects you to have it taken care of by Monday. Good day, Minamino-san."

"To you as well, Sensei," he spoke delicately, keeping his head bowed until he heard terse footsteps round the corner.

* * *

"They want you to _what?"_

Yusuke leered in across the café table, mouth pulling his face into an exaggerated expression of disbelief. His eyes were impossibly wide, hands pressed against the speckled surface, fingers spread out and knuckles turning white.

"Cut and dye my hair," Kurama stirred his tea, words soft and tired to match the motion, trying not to flush as several pairs of eyes from the surrounding booths stared at them.

"Well I'll be damned," Yusuke collapsed back into the red vinyl, sinking in with his arms crossed against his chest.

"That's harsh stuff, man," Kuwabara sniffed. "I mean, I've gotten crap for my hair before, 'cause I'm one-forth Irish on my mom's side, but they've never actually forced me to _do_ something to it."

"That's because those hoity-toity bastards sitting pretty in administration couldn't give a shit about low-life thugs like you and me," Yusuke spat. "How do you think I get away with wearing green all of the time?"

"Point taken," Kuwabara shrugged, mouth wrapping around the straw in his soda. He cast his eyes towards the red-haired boy sitting next to him. "Maybe you should become a low-life thug then Kurama. Fail your classes, cuss out your teachers…"

"Beat the crap out of some whiney rich brats, graffiti bathroom stalls and desks," Yusuke grinned maliciously, brown eyes glinting dangerously over his drink. Kurama could only timidly imagine the things the detective was thinking up.

"Oh don't stop there," Botan wryly chimed in, "why don't you just show up in drag tomorrow and start selling heroine to underclassmen?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Botan," Yusuke waved her off, "Methamphetamines will get you in _way_ more trouble."

Botan dropped her head, sighing loudly, frustrated—and Kurama let out a short laugh. It was the first time in hours he felt light, happy. She stared at him, blue brows furrowed over gleaming pink eyes—and when he thought about it, but Kurama noticed Botan reminded him of nursery ward in a hospital.

Ironic, for the grim reaper.

"I can't picture you with short, black hair," she muttered, shaking her head softly. "It'll be too weird."

"We'll all get used to it. Eventually," Kurama shrugged, casting his eyes to the distorted world in the surface of his tea. He felt like he was mostly trying to convince himself. "I'm just not looking forward to the reaction of my peers."

"Ooh, poor Kurama, getting attention from hundreds of pretty girls. God you're existence is just so _tragic_," Yusuke drawled.

"And a few boys, I'd imagine," Botan sang, elbows on the table, chin resting in her palms.

"Oh _Shuichi-chan_, what'd you do to your _gorgeous red tresses?_ Shuichi-chan, it's so _short and dark_. Shuichi-chan, why don't you love me back?" Kurama cringed--it was frigthening how dead-on Kuwabara's impression was.

"'Gorgeous red tresses'? _Jeez_ Kuwabara, if I didn't know better I'd think that that's the way you really feel about Kurama's hair."

"Shut up Urameshi. Just because some of us don't have the vocabulary of a two-year-old and actually _read_ to expand our verbal skills…"

"Read what? Your sister's Harlequin romance novels?"

"You said you'd never tell anyone!"

"You're the one who just admitted to it."

"Piss off!"

"Boys." Botan barked. She glowered at the two of them, their heads turned to face her angry eyes, slowly falling from baby pink to a crowded, dark bubblegum. "Sit. _Down."_

They fell back in unison, still glaring sharply at each other from across the table. A tense beat, and Yusuke turned to Kurama.

"Can't you just, y'know, _not do it?"_ he asked, folding his arms over the surface and quirking a dark eyebrow.

"My principal made it very clear that if I were to refuse for an extended period of time, that expulsion would be heavily considered. Suspension and detention inevitable," another sip—his tea was getting cold.

"Well that's stupid," Yusuke leaned back. Kurama could tell his friend wasn't just referring to his school's dress code, but to the fact that he cared enough to actually follow it. He had to, though. The grades, the good behavior, the willingness to change it all—it wasn't for him. It never was.

Caring eyes, soft and dark under any light, under any circumstance, matching hair that fell wistfully over thin but strong shoulders. Skin pale and unmarred with the delicate features that most women half her age would kill for. His mother was the reason for it all. He looked nothing like her—more like a strange human adaptation of a rose.

But he…_liked _the way he looked. Was comfortable. Through the halls, on the streets—everyone just seemed so awkward, in the way their bodies moved inside of their clothes, in the way they spoke careful words and slid through the air, unnoticeable and meaningless. The way they felt. Polar opposite from the Makai, where the more you stood out, the better. Maybe it was simple demon characteristics carried over from his previous life, maybe it was just the quiet confidence Shiori had always instilled in him…

Maybe he just liked his red hair.

"It won't be so bad," Botan gushed, patting the back of his hand and flashing a reassuring smile. "I bet it'll look great. Just wait and see."

He tried to believe her—but the best he could do was give her a stretched grin.

"Hey Uremeshi," Kuwabara started, looking down at the watch wrapped around his wrist. "Aren't you supposed to meet up with Keiko like…ten minutes ago?"

"Yep."

"Yusuke, don't you remember the last time you were late meeting her?" Botan groaned, rolling her eyes into a point glare that spat you know better.

"She threw a frying pan at my head," he stood up slowly, stretching his arms, arching his back, "So what else is new?"

* * *

The walk home seemed longer than usual—streets winding into each other in a never ending vine of tar, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the pavement as he passed by familiar storefronts, glass display windows glinting at him in sordid winks. Usually the city was filled with a soothing liveliness, smiling faces, each with their own story, little kids with deep eyes and dimpled hands reaching out for their mothers. It was all so safe. At a point in time his restless fox nature would've found this serene world of placid buildings and guiding streets boring and pathetic, human souls so easily enthralled with toys and food and shopping.

That afternoon, the fox was coming out again.

Up the stairs, down the hall, through his bedroom door—Kurama breathed in the familiar scent of freshly washed sheets, used books, mowed grass…

And Hiei.

Hiei was at his window.

"Hiei," Kurama tried to bite back his surprise. He knew he'd smelt something familiar during his walk home, but he'd been too busy wallowing in his own self-pity to pick it up, "What are you doing here?"

"Genkai," pale, calloused fingers held out a folded envelope, edges bent and paper wrinkled. His tone short and harsh, eyes darting around the room, taking in his surroundings. A habit, Kurama guessed. Or maybe human homes still confused him.

"I'm surprised. Genkai must've promised something great to have you running around doing errands for her," he grinned, taking the envelope into his hands with teasing fingers. Dangerously red eyes glared at him, sharp and sudden. Kurama dropped the gaze, eyes settling on the folded note in his hands. "What's this concerning?"

"I don't know. I didn't open it," Hiei spat with another sharp look.

"Because you were instructed not to, or merely because you don't care?" Kurama asked with a soft grin. Hiei stared at him, hard and unwavering. Childish almost, in his stubbornness. Kurama shook his head, "Right. Never mind then. How long've you been trailing me?"

"An hour. Maybe more," Hiei looked to the widow, like he wanted to leave, but stood still in the afternoon light.

"You could've joined us, you know," Kurama tentatively reminded him. Futile, presumably. Hiei would never accept the concept of having friends. Years of emotional stunting, neglect, and deprivation had long since devoured any hope of the fire demon ever forming a normal relationship with anyone or anything. Hiei was too cold, too angry.

Too afraid.

"Though I suppose you don't care," Kurama smiled, bittersweet and soft. Hiei shifted on his feet—so slightly it was almost unnoticeable. Years of knowing each other and Kurama's sharp senses were the only reason he could see it. Hiei was uncomfortable.

"Hn."

"From the air pressure and intense winds, I'd expect a thunderstorm tonight. You're more than welcome to take the guest room, if you'd like," Kurama placed his school satchel on his desk, undoing the latch and opening the top. He glanced at Hiei from out of the corner of his eye, the fire demon staring at him—a look that could easily be mistaken for a glare, if it wasn't for the fact that the demon seldom took on a different expression.

"I have a tree," Hiei offered as a reply.

"There's food downstairs, if you're hungry," Kurama tried again, because even if he understood that it was pointless, there was still a small part of him that wanted to reach out.

"Are you really so desperate for any form of company that you've resigned yourself to _small talk_? Is altering your hair really that much of a detriment to you being, or are you just expertly playing the part of a vain human?" Hiei shot at him icily.

"So you listened to our conversation then. If I didn't know better Hiei, I'd say you were the one desperate for company," Kurama turned to him, crossing his arms against his chest. Now Hiei was glaring, the pupils of his eyes shrinking to angry needle points.

"I was just waiting for you to leave. The fact that I had to suffer through the piercing babble of the spirit detective and his mindless lemmings from a distance was bad enough. I'd rather have gotten another Jagan eye than deal with that up close." The twitch of his nose, the furrow of his brow, one foot gliding back in a half-step—defensive. "You caring so much about something as trivial as your hair just goes to show how self-indulgent and pathetically feminine this human world has made you."

Kurama hated to admit how right Hiei's words felt. Living in the care of a human mother, spending years under the influence of human television and media, gaining and trusting friends despite all of the supernatural interferences had more than likely affected the way he viewed himself.

Still, realizing this didn't change a damned thing.

So he said, with diligent conviction and flawless diction, the perfect human teenage answer, to which there could never be a suitable retort.

_"Whatever."_

Left eye twitching, mouth bending into a thin grimace, muscles tensing—now Hiei was just flat-out pissed.

"Fine. Wallow in your superficial self-pity. Drown in it, for all I care. Just don't expect me to show you any sympathy when your weakness gets your throat slit," he hisses—and in a blurring flash he was gone, the room still except for the harsh breeze pushing through the open window.

* * *

"Something wrong, Shuu-chan? You've barely touched your food."

Kurama looked up from his full plate into the worrying pools of deep brown that belonged to his mother. He smiled, reassuringly and falsely, "Oh no, I'm fine. I'm just not very hungry, I guess."

"Are you coming down with something?" Shiori pressed her hand against his forehead with such speed and agility Kurama doubted he could've stopped her if he really wanted to. Impossibly fast, blood thirsty demons were sluggish in comparison to a concerned mother.

"No, no," he slid her hand away from his face with gliding ease. "Just had a filling lunch, is all." A pack of saltine crackers and tea—filling for a mouse, maybe. Shiori saw right through him.

"Does this have anything to do with the school asking you to cut your hair?" she asked softy. It was just the two of them—his step-father away on business in Nagasaki, his little brother at a friend's for the night, the middle school having the next few days off due to a small fire in the cafeteria. "Because I could call, if you'd like. Set up a meeting, see what I can do. It is your natural hair color after all and maybe we could reach a compromise about the length. And after the review is over you could always grow it back."

Slim, pale fingers toyed with the ends of his hair. She'd always smile and tell him how beautiful she thought his hair was, laugh because she said she had no idea where he got it from. Probably a distant European relative on his father's side. Kurama knew that wasn't true, but let her keep smiling and believing it anyway.

"No, it's fine. Like you said—I could always grow it back after school," he wanted to prove, to Hiei and himself, that he wasn't just a vain, self-indulgent human, getting upset about his appearance. "Besides, I've already made the salon appointment."

* * *

"Man, I can't believe you're going through with this."

Kurama smiled to himself as he walked down the street next to Yusuke. He sent a side long glance to his friend.

"Oh? And why not?"

Yusuke paused, "I don't know. You just seemed kind of torn up about it the other day. I mean, you're red hair is just—it's_ you_. It's human Kurama. With short black hair you'll just look like me." He grinned, "Of course, I can't blame you for wanting that."

"Mm," Kurama hummed a small laugh, "Perhaps I haven't thought this all the way through…"

Yusuke gave him an indignant look, "You should really leave the comic relief of our team to me, fox-boy."

"Noted."

The hair shop blended into a string of stores on the street seamlessly, the same glazed display windows, same internal makeup, same long rectangular signs advertising the names. The two boys stood in front of it, blank and unsure. They'd been talking so casually, about movies and home, about going to Genkai's next Sunday per her request to adress the the pressing matter of an intense demon energy coming from inside of the forest that seemed to have no origin. Normal stuff.

"So," Yusuke started, shuffling awkwardly on his feet, "I've got a hot date this afternoon with Keiko and the library, and she told me she'd castrate me with safety scissors if I didn't meet her on time…"

"I see," Kurama smiled, stepping up to the door and placing his hand on the handle, doubting Keiko could ever be so vulgar, "I'll see you later then."

"With your new look," Yusuke grinned widely back.

"Yes. With my new look."

And with that Kurama pushed his way inside.

* * *

The ten minute wait sitting inside of the salon was nothing short of grueling torture—the undulating scent of burning hair from fresh perms, the constant whir of blow-dryers and inane chatter from client to stylist, the glaring pink of the walls that reminded him way too much of his school uniform accompanied by the frame of lights that surrounded each mirror.

"Don't worry, we get guys in here all of the time," a young woman in heavy makeup and long, feathered hair showed him to the first chair on the right hand side. The way she winked at him through the mirror told him a bit more about all of the men that'd ventured into the salon before him. He brushed it off—it was pretty much commonplace to him for people to assume he was gay.

Or a girl.

He really didn't care.

"I'm Asuya, by the way," she began. She paused, taking a moment to wrap a smock around his neck, like she was tightening a noose. Her scissors gleamed in the florescent lighting. "You sure you want to cut and dye this?" he felt strong fingers brushing through his hair, eyes casting him an unsure glance. He looked at himself, canceled out the smells and sounds pulsating through the air, and really just looked at himself.

Everyone seemed to have some sort of attachment to his hair, tenderly nostalgic in the way they looked at it and touched it. Brushing the pads of his fingertips to its ends, he realized that the reason he liked his hair so much, the reason he didn't want to get rid of it, was because it was one of the main things that made him look so different from Youko. It was one of the main things that reminded him of his new life—the human one, with his friends, his family. And maybe that made him weak, but he didn't care.

Because it made him happy, too.

Delicate metal clanged against linoleum floor, gasps filling the air, and it took Kurama a full moment for everything to register in his mind.

"Hiei?" he breathed, staring at the scene in the reflective slate in front of him—the fire demon standing in front of Asuya, scissors on the floor, determination in his stance.

"C'mon," Hiei ripped the smock from his body, letting it fall to the floor, "let's go Kurama."

"But I—" _can't leave, don't understand, what the hell_ were all of the possible responses rushing through Kurama's mind as Hiei moved to leave the salon. The demon paused in front of the front desk, hands in his pockets, the entire salon staring at him.

"I said come on."

"But—"

_"Now,"_ he snarled over his shoulder, glaring heatedly at Kurama—fed up. How could he argue with that? Kurama flashed an apologetic smile to Asuya, who's hazel eyes reflected her entire salon world in their depths, a stuttering expression of disbelief and fear splashed across her painted face. He almost wanted to tell her that she'd look a lot prettier if she washed all of that toner, lipstick, and eye shadow off. But decided against it. It would have to be something she'd figure out on her own.

"Hiei!" he called after the other man, who was already making his way up the street. "Hiei, what was all of that about?" Kurama ran up to him. "Why did you stop her?"

"I paid a small visit to that human principal of yours. Seems visitors at two in the morning during a thunderstorm seem to frighten him quite a bit," Hiei still refused to turn and look at him as he spoke. "He squeaked something about a connection to Yakuza, whatever the hell that is, and I didn't say anything. He said he'd do whatever I wanted, so long as I let him live. I showed him your picture, and despite my initial impression of his unparalleled idiocy, he seemed to understand."

Kurama just stared at the shorter man, heart pumping wildly inside of his chest.

"So there. You can continue to be the pathetic red-haired human you seem so accustomed to now. Or you can shave your head, for all I care. Do whatever the hell you want." Red eyes met green in the Saturday sun.

"Hiei," he couldn't do anything else but say exactly what he was thinking, "Why on earth would you do something like that for me?"

Even with his own set moral code, so twisted and unreadable, Kurama would've never thought Hiei would lower himself to threatening a human principal in Kurama's defense. The idea of it was borderline unfathomable. It was ludicrous.

But still, there they were.

"Hiei," he sang.

"Don't be so condescending, fox," the demon snapped, "just because I was bored and decided to help you out in no way means I've accepted any form of companionship with you or the likes of any other human, nor am I seeking it. I do as I please without any sort of foreign dictation. Understood?" Hiei didn't even bother looking at him—just kept on walking, hands in pockets, moving forward. Was he…? It wasn't quite discomfort, or fear, or anger…it was…

_Embarrassment._

And perhaps it was just the setting sun, or merely his eyes playing tricks on him, a combination of the two, but Kurama could've sworn there was an impossibly light tint of pink flushed over Hiei's cheeks. They wound their way through the streets languidly.

He pushed back his bangs—letting his fingers relish in the silky feeling of the long, red threads of hair run through, and laughed. Loud and sudden, in a way he rarely let himself do. Hiei quirked a subtly curious eyebrow at him, and it only made Kurama laugh harder.

"And what, pray tell, is just so goddamn funny?"

"Nothing," Kurama gasped, stomach clenching. "Just—thank you. Hiei."

The fire demon turned to look to the street, "Hn."

"Can I ask why you did it?"

"You already did."

"Well I'm asking again."

"Your reputation precedes you. For someone meant to be so clever, you're rather foolish, Kurama," Hiei let a small half-smile slip onto his face.

"Forgive my ignorance, Hiei, and indulge me a little." Kurama stopped, and they stood in front of his house, a beat echoing through the air. "Why did you do that for me?"

There eyes caught--green locked with red, so many things that couldn't be spoken...

"You'd look stupid with short black hair."

Kurama smiled to himself, sliding his hand into his pant pocket, "Can I ask you something else, Hiei?"

"If you must," he retorted cutrly. Kurama pulled his house key out ande moved to open his front door.

"Why did you have a picture of me with you?"

In the middle of his sentence, Hiei's scent vanished, leaving only cool, lingering remnants that were nowhere near as strong as the real thing. The door whined open, and Kurama looked around dumbly. He sighed with a small smile—of course Hiei would never answer.

Pushing into his home and shutting the door behind him, Kurama's smile widened, because he would still always ask.

THE END.


End file.
